


Buzzcut Season

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Songs of Innocence [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cranky Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale, Sickfic, Standalone, Will Graham Has Encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 03:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10676904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: If Hannibal were anyone else, Will would have thought he was trying to atone for past sins - reversing the failure to care for Will properly the first time his brain had caught fire.  But this was Hannibal, and atonement wasn’t precisely in his repertoire.Or:Will has an encephalitis relapse. He's pretty cranky about it.





	Buzzcut Season

**Author's Note:**

> I told y'all there would be something relatively fluffy in the songfic prompt series at some point. It just took, ahem, longer than expected.

 

> _I remember when your head caught flame_
> 
> _It kissed your scalp and caressed your brain_
> 
> _Well you laughed, baby it's okay_
> 
> _It's buzz cut season anyway_
> 
> _~Lorde, "Buzzcut Season"_

 

“Fucking... _ouch_.”

If there had been an unmarked, untender inch of skin, Hannibal would have found it.  But there wasn’t, so Will just had to lie there and take the sting of the needle. But he didn’t have to _like_ it.

Hannibal liked it, Will was entirely certain.  It made him all the more irritable.

He supposed, all things considered, that “aware and irritable” was better than “halfway back to the gibberish land of nightmare stags and waking up half-naked on the roof”, where he’d found himself a few weeks earlier when his encephalitis had decided to make a reappearance.

It didn’t help.  He was still irritable.

“There, now,” Hannibal said, practically crooned, the sort of soft meaningless comfort one might offer a child or a very ill patient.  He was fussing with the IV line, so Will resisted the urge to reach his untethered hand over and pinch Hannibal out of sheer annoyance.

“I hate this,” he said, knowing there was no point and no other true options.  “You could at least have the decency to _pretend_ you hate it, too.”

Hannibal’s face twitched as if he were considering trying to settle it into a semblance of displeasure, but he gave up the attempt almost immediately.  “Your progress is gratifying to me personally and professionally,” he said, with a small ripple of movement that might have been a shrug on another sort of person, the sort who did things like shrug.  “You wouldn’t be fooled for a moment if I pretended otherwise.”

“ _Progress_.”  Will huffed a disgruntled breath at that as he settled back in his chair, careful not to dislodge the IV line from his arm.

“You’re lucid enough to be angry at me.  Sometimes that’s what progress looks like.”

“You set the bar low, doctor.”  But Will could feel his traitorous mouth twitching into a hint of a smile anyway.  Hannibal was just so _delighted_ with being able to care for Will that it was hard for Will not to get swept along with it and let himself be chivvied into eating another helping, taking a longer nap, being a good patient in spite of himself.

If Hannibal were anyone else, Will would have thought he was trying to atone for past sins - reversing the failure to care for Will properly the first time his brain had caught fire.  But this was Hannibal, and atonement wasn’t precisely in his repertoire.  Taking care of Will was a pleasure and an end in itself, even if Will kicked and screamed the entire way.  Maybe _especially_ with Will kicking and screaming.

 _Progress_ , Will thought again, with a small inward sigh.  There were worse hobbies and pleasures for Hannibal to indulge in, by far.   

Finished fiddling with the equipment, Hannibal checked that Will’s water glass was full and then settled into his own chair before answering.

“Have you had any more hallucinations?”

“I thought we’d established that I don’t always know when I’m hallucinating,” Will said. But he went on: “But I don’t think so.  Nothing with feathers that shouldn’t have feathers.  No blood in the shower.  No dead people at the breakfast table.  You’ve only had antlers once this week, and it was kind of hot.”

He said it mostly to be difficult but it wasn’t entirely untrue.  He managed not to laugh at Hannibal’s indignant expression, but he let it cheer him.

“ _Will_.”  Hannibal eyed him with one of the looks he saved for when Will was being particularly obstreperous.  In another situation it might have gotten him laid, but even if Hannibal were willing to cut an IV session short - which he wouldn’t do for anything short of the apocalypse or Jack Crawford in the doorway with a gun in hand - Will didn’t have the energy for anything but tart remarks. He could enjoy the promise of the expression, though.

“Yes, dear?”  

“Please take this seriously.”

Will took a gulp of water and continued.  “Fine.  Once, two days ago, you had antlers again. But it was right when I woke up, it might have just been a leftover from a dream. And it’s possible I’m just sexually frustrated, not developing a reindeer fetish.”

Hannibal blinked at him, perhaps grappling with that notion for a moment, and then nodded.  “It’s a good sign if your sex drive is returning.  We’ll address that later.”  

His voice was warm with the promise of just how he might be planning to _address that_ , and Will might have squirmed a bit if he weren’t tethered to a tube in his arm that made him yelp every time he moved without accounting for it.

“Now,” Hannibal went on, every inch the prim doctor again in an instant, “are you having any more headaches?”

Will tried to think back over the past few days.  It was harder than he’d have liked; his brain was definitely improving, but things still felt fuzzier than usual, his thoughts a half beat slower than they should be.  “Just the one yesterday.  Nothing aspirin couldn’t handle.”  

“Good.”  Hannibal leaned back, seemingly satisfied with his interrogation for the moment.  “I’m encouraged.  You’ll tell me if any of your symptoms worsen, but I think we’re still on the right track with this regimen.”

 _And thank god for that_ , Will thought to himself.  Trusting Hannibal’s ability to steal the necessary equipment for home IV treatment was one thing, but either of them trying to unobtrusively get access to a plasmapheresis machine would be a nightmare.  They had a lot riding on being able to treat Will’s fucked-up brain at home.

He gulped the rest of the water and held out his empty glass to Hannibal, who would start hounding him about hydration any moment now if Will didn’t get ahead of it. “Refill, please?”

The fresh glass arrived with ice and a thin slice of lemon, as if Hannibal just couldn’t help himself from trying to spruce up anything he got his hands on.  Will tamped down the urge to roll his eyes and took a sip.

Hannibal touched Will’s forehead and then his cheek, feeling for a fever that wasn’t there anymore.  Or at least, Will didn’t think it was.  He wasn’t entirely reliable at the moment as a reporter of his own experience, but he was lucid enough to _know_ himself unreliable.  The combination made him want to snap and snarl at the nearest hand, even when that hand was gentle.  He closed his eyes instead and leaned into the touch, Hannibal’s fingers dry and cool from holding the water glass.  

“I hate this,” Will said again, quieter this time.  “They told me people relapse, but I thought after this long…”

Hannibal touched him again, grounding: _a paddle_ , he’d said so many years ago.  

Will had been so angry for so long at the lie.

“In a perfect world you’d have checkups,” Hannibal said, not for the first time.  They’d been having variations on this conversation for weeks, taking turns blaming themselves for Will’s relapse.  Today it was Will’s turn for self-recrimination, apparently, and Hannibal’s to reassure.  Perhaps tomorrow they’d switch; it kept things lively.  “Perhaps not as often by now, but you’d still have them.  You might have caught it sooner, but probably not avoided it altogether.  These things just happen.”

The urge to reach for Hannibal’s hand was strong, but the IV wouldn’t let Will. It was probably for the best. The illness and the medication made him sleepy and soft, sappier than he’d like to be.  Hannibal was plenty sappy enough for the both of them even when Will _wasn’t_ too exhausted to sit up for more than a few hours at a time; in mother hen mode he was near-unbearable, and didn’t need encouragement.

Still, he could _hear_ softness in his own voice when he said, “Perfect world, huh?  Just like this, but with checkups?”

To his credit, Hannibal at least pretended to consider.  The cabin, too rustic for his taste and not quite rustic enough for Will’s and therefore perfect; a vague scratching out in the hallway where the dogs were annoyed at being shut out of the room; Will ensconced in Hannibal’s makeshift medical bay in the living room, with his arm propped up on the side table and the stolen immunoglobulin dripping into his vein.

“Checkups and a tailor,” he said after surveying his surroundings.

Will considered Hannibal right back: storebought sweater and slacks, and the nearest tailor thirty miles away at least.  

“Can’t always get what you want,” he said, and pointed his free hand at Hannibal’s chair.  “We’ll make do.  Go on, get out of my hair.  I want to read for a while.”

His book was nearby, along with a plate of snacks and his phone.  Hannibal really didn’t need to stay in the room but Will knew better than to try to send him away.  He settled in to read, awkwardly shuffling pages one-handed. Hannibal somehow managed to give the impression of hovering even from his seat across the room, tapping distractedly at his tablet and peering over the top of it at Will more often than not.

He read until his vision started to swim, from the illness or exhaustion or both, and then set the book aside.  He hadn’t retained much of it; he’d probably need to reread the same chapter later or tomorrow.  It didn’t matter.  Surely he couldn’t be expected to retain details with his brain on fire - slowing down now with early detection and treatment, more glowing coals than the roaring flames it had been the first time, in Baltimore, but aflame even so.

Hannibal watched him, questioning, but didn’t get up.

Will closed his eyes and summoned up the memory of the last time he’d been treated for encephalitis.  Suspected of murder: cuffed to the chair, under armed guard and in the care of terrified nurses.  The quality of the medical care had been higher, no doubt, but this was infinitely better.

“Read to me?” he asked, not bothering to open his eyes to see whether Hannibal was still paying attention.

It only took a moment for Hannibal to comply.  He wasn’t reading in English, god forbid, but he didn’t bother to translate, as if he knew that Will only needed the sound of his voice, and not the sense.  

He probably did know.  He was incredibly annoying that way.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me [over on Tumblr](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com) anytime!


End file.
